


the moths don't die for nothing

by majesdane



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Companion Piece, F/F, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: But this isn't anywhere else, and Raelle's not just any girl.| Set after 1x10.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 30
Kudos: 200





	the moths don't die for nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [how to love a black hole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472446) by [majesdane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane). 



we two will know each other, even better —  
— _the odyssey_ , homer

i want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning.  
— _norweigan wood_ , haruki murakami

* * *

Of all the streets in all the world, Scylla never expected to find Raelle on _this_ particular street.

Which, of course, is exactly why Raelle is there; always the unexpected constant in Scylla's life. She's standing across the street from the Spree safehouse, staring at Scylla with a half-dazed expression, as if Scylla is a dream and not a half-dozen steps away, paused at the front gate, staring right back. 

Scylla will never get used to it, the way everything else in the world falls away when Raelle looks at her. Even in anger. Even in hate.

Their eyes meet and it's as if the world stops spinning on its axis. Her breath catches in her throat. Her heart feels like it's trapped in a clenched fist. It's every ridiculous, cliché metaphor about love that she's always loathed — and yet there's no better way to describe it, the way she feels in this moment. 

It's the first time they've seen each other in a little over a month.

The first time since Raelle walked away from her, shaking with anger and the force of holding back tears. A month since Scylla told the truth — that it was Raelle, _always_ , from that very first day — only to find herself alone again, her sobs echoing off damp stone walls. She'd cried until she'd fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, waking up with her muscles aching worse than ever before from staining against her bonds. 

The first time since Anacostia freed her; since Scylla found herself in the kitchen of the Spree safehouse staring down Raelle's _mother_ ; since Alder's disastrous unsanctioned mission into the Altai Mountains. 

It's not how Scylla planned their reunion at _all_ , but here Raelle is anyway, looking uncertain but strong, and every bit the girl Scylla met that day at the Storm Range. 

And all she can do is say Raelle's name. Barely above a whisper.

For a second, she really thinks Raelle hears her. She lets herself believe that the twitch of Raelle's legs means that Raelle is going to cross the street and sweep her up into a heady kiss, and say all the things that Scylla so desperately wants her to say.

_I love you; I'm with you; I forgive you._

But all Raelle does is turn and run, leaving Scylla alone again and stunned, standing on the sidewalk on a hot August afternoon.

*

Exactly three days after Scylla's "escape" from Fort Salem, she hears Anacostia's voice whispering in her ear.

She starts when she hears it, not used to this sort of secret communication. Her parents had used it sparingly and the Spree almost never, relying instead on coded messages with embedded sigils and mirrors. She scurries up to her bedroom and closes the door, making sure to lock it and sing a Silencing Seed. There's eyes and ears everywhere in the Spree safehouse; Scylla isn't naive enough to think Willa's not keeping tabs on her.

Not after what happened with Raelle. Not after Scylla discovered the true depth of all her decisions.

_We need to meet._

Scylla gives her the address for a Spree hideout across town, an apartment that the Spree keep for emergencies. 

"Raelle's back," Anacostia says, as soon as she steps inside the room an hour later. 

Scylla isn't even aware that Raelle was _gone_. 

Dumbstruck, she listens as Anacostia lays out everything she's missed in the past couple of days. Alder's secret mission to rescue the Tarim. Confirmation of the Camarilla. Raelle stabbed straight through the heart ― Scylla can't help but shudder at the thought ― but somehow still alive. Anacostia doesn't know all the details; Alder's still playing with her cards close to her chest. 

Not that that's surprising; Scylla would expect nothing else of the _beloved_ General. Something happened out there in China and if Alder's so determined to keep it under wraps that she's keeping even _Anacostia_ in the dark ― well, Scylla knows that can't be anything good.

Cool determination settles over her. "I need to see Raelle."

Anacostia shakes her head. "You can't see her." She puts up a hand as Scylla begins to protest. "Right now she thinks you're in Saint-Domingue, biding your time in a jail cell awaiting execution." 

"She deserves to know the truth, Anacostia," Scylla says fretfully, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Then, quieter, she adds, "Even if she hates me."

"Ramshorn," Anacostia says, sounding every bit the hardass drill sergeant from the infirmary during Raelle's first week in Basic. "Pretend you're not yourself for one minute and listen. I have a plan. But I need you to be focused."

"I _am_ focused," Scylla snaps. "I'm focused on making sure Alder doesn't get Raelle killed. Again!" She throws up her hands, stomping to the window.

Outside, civilians go about their daily lives. In the park the apartment complex sits next to, Scylla watches a family playing catch. A pair of joggers, laughing and bumping each other playfully as they lap around the perimeter. All of them so completely unaware of everything that's going on around them. She loathes them. She envies them. Their lives are so impossibly easy. 

She wanted that kind of life for herself, once. 

(long summer days by a beach; raelle in the ocean, her hair slicked back, smiling as she dives through the waves.)

"Fine," she relents at last, sitting back down. "What's this plan?"

*

"Well," Willa says lightly, as Scylla trudges down the stairs and into the living room, where Willa and Anacostia were left standing after Raelle ran off angrily. "That could have gone better."

It's the understatement of the century; Scylla marvels at her own restraint. She bites down on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from making an acidic retort. Willa was foolish to think Raelle would take this revelation gracefully; she'd been gone too long, clinging to the idea of a lonely girl desperate to see her mother again. Someone willing to forgive all sins by virtue of them being done in the name of love.

But Raelle's stronger than that; she's stronger than Willa believes her to be. She's all white-hot fury and stubborn defiance, and she's _hurting_. And Scylla's willing to accept her part in that hurt, but she understands all too well the feeling of Willa's betrayal.

She remembers standing in the safe house kitchen, hungry and exhausted, the realization of _why_ the Spree wanted Raelle so badly settling in her stomach like a ball of lead. She wanted to scream, to throw up, to smash everything in sight, to sink to the ground and cry.

"Raelle's upset," Scylla says placidly, perching on the arm of the well-worn sofa. "And she's going to be like that for a while; she won't be placated so easily."

Anacostia sighs, exasperated. "I knew this would happen. Willa ― "

"She'll come around."

Scylla bites back a laugh. "I've witnessed Raelle's anger over a betrayal firsthand. It wasn't pretty then; I imagine it'll be worse now."

Willa fixes her with a hard look. " _You_ had one job," she says evenly, as if she's forgotten Anacostia's still in the room. Or, perhaps, she no longer cares about any kind of pretense. "And you failed."

"I was lacking certain pertinent information, wouldn't you say?"

"Regardless," Willa continues fluidly, ignoring her. "You're the only one who can talk some sense into her."

Scylla _does_ laugh then, bitterly. "Oh, I doubt that. Raelle hates me; she won't listen to anything I have to say."

It's Anacostia who speaks next: "She will."

The look on her face is akin to the one she had when she let Scylla escape. Not quite sympathy; something more challenging than that. She _believes_ in Scylla. It's a little terrifying. But also . . . kind of nice. Comforting, almost. The only other people who've ever looked at her like that were her parents.

And Raelle, once upon a time.

"Just tell her the truth," Anacostia says, and it's a way forward so glaringly obvious that Scylla's stunned into silence.

(of course; the answer was there all along.)

*

In Willa and Anacostia's absence ― out on a walk to discuss the next steps of their plan, having deemed Scylla should stay behind ― she slumps down in a chair, the events of the past few hours finally taking their toll on her. Bone-tired, she can feel the slight pulse of a headache forming behind her eyes. She sighs and leans back, covering her face with her hands.

Upstairs, it's quiet; Scylla chances a look inside the bedroom Raelle's holed herself up in, relieved to see Raelle curled up on the bed, sound asleep. She must be exhausted.

Goddess, what Scylla wouldn't give to pad softly into the room and lie down beside Raelle. If they were anyone else in any situation, she could do it. She could nestle in close and nose the braids away from Raelle's neck, kissing the soft skin there.

But this isn't anywhere else, and Raelle's not just any girl.

So she contents herself with fussing about in the kitchen, making herself a late lunch. It's been a long day, and her stomach's growling in protest; she was too anxious to eat breakfast this morning.

She contemplates saying sorry again, dragging herself upstairs and whispering an apology in Raelle's ear so soft that she won't even stir ― but maybe Raelle _will_ hear it, maybe she'll believe it, and somehow it'll turn back time and they'll have early summer all over again, the trees ― _their_ tree ― lush and full. She'll have Raelle in her arms again, twirling her around with a laugh, her smile bright enough to rival the sun. 

She remembers Raelle in her dorm room that morning after Beltane, sprawled out on the bed, the sheets bunched up around her waist, skin nearly aglow in the sunlight. Her suit lying in a crumbled heap beside the bed, from where Scylla had all but torn it off after they'd gotten back to her dorm room. The way Raelle mumbled incomprehensibly in her sleep. The slight curves of her body in Scylla's arms, how she turned on her side to kiss Scylla with a lazy smile. Reaching up to brush Scylla's hair ― fresh from a shower, still damp ― out of her eyes. 

"Hi there, Private," Scylla had murmured, and Raelle had kissed her again. Deeper this time, as if there was something more significant about this moment than all the other moments that had come before it, stretched out endlessly. 

If Scylla knew a Seed to stop time forever, she would have sung it then; she wants to live in the space between those seconds. A few minutes of bliss, everything else forgotten except the blue of Raelle's eyes and the way she looked at Scylla as if Scylla hung the moon. As if she were all the stars in the sky.

But Scylla's used up all her apologies, it seems; they won't fix anything.

*

Two weeks go by, and still it feels strange.

Strange how Raelle doesn't look at her quite the same, how it's rare to see her smile — and when she does, it's forced and tight and Scylla just wishes that she wouldn't even bother, because it's really not worth it. It's strange how something that she always took for granted is one of the things she realizes she misses the most now. It's one of the many things that she wants to have back, because really, it doesn't seem fair, except for the part where it absolutely is, and something closes up inside her, and she has to turn away and stare out the window until the feeling passes, until she's forced the tears back down.

Because really, that wouldn't be fair either ― crying.

She just wants to touch Raelle. Just for a second. Wants to feel her skin under her palms, wants to bury her face in Raelle's hair and breathe in deeply, smelling commissary soap and Tally's strawberry-scented shampoo that Raelle was always borrowing. She wants to press her lips against Raelle's and kiss her, just one more time.

In the Spree safehouse, Scylla hands Raelle a clean shirt ― sparring with Abigail in the backyard has left Raelle with a bloody nose, and it's dripped all down the front of her plain military t-shirt. Anacostia and the others always arrive in civilian clothes, so as to blend in with the quiet streets. Scylla's still not used to seeing Raelle in civilian clothes, though she likes it quite a lot; Raelle's boyish swagger seems even more overt in her oversized flannel shirts and loose-fitted jeans. 

She clears her throat and turns away politely as Raelle unceremoniously tugs off her shirt. 

"You don't have to do that," Raelle mumbles, behind her. "I mean, it's fine. You've already seen everything anyway."

Scylla's mouth goes dry as she turns around and takes in the sight of Raelle in her jeans and sports bra. Maybe it's been so long Scylla's forgotten, but Raelle looks more toned than the last time Scylla saw her in a state of undress. And then she notices the thin white scar on Raelle's chest.

(how often has she bolted awake at night, dreaming of blood spilling from raelle's chest and mouth?)

"You're getting quite the collection," Scylla says lightly, carefully, giving Raelle a chance to open up.

Raelle doesn't meet Scylla's eyes, picking at an invisible loose thread on her shirt. "Yeah," she mutters, slipping it on and doing up the buttons. "Got lots of them."

The rest goes unspoken; it's the ones that Scylla can't see that she's responsible for.

And Goddess, it _stings_. And maybe Scylla deserves it ― maybe she deserves everything ― but she's just so tired of them dancing around each other like this. She's tired of waiting for Raelle to come around. For every tentative step forward, they seem to take two giant leaps back. 

But then Raelle _does_ meet her eyes, her expression gentler. "I never said ― " she pauses, as if unsure of what to say next, " ― well, I'm glad Anacostia helped you. I asked her to ― not like that, obviously. But you deserved better than that prison." She offers a small smile. An olive branch, of sorts. "I know you, Scyl. You've made mistakes. But you're not a bad person."

It may as well be a declaration of love; it's surely the sweetest thing Raelle's said to her in months. 

Scylla thinks she could cry.

She's never wanted to kiss Raelle as badly as she wants to right now.

*

The last thing in the world that Scylla wants is to be put on stakeout duty with Abigail Bellweather. So of course that's exactly who she's paired up with for the night shift. They've all been taking turns monitoring the duplex across the street in nearby Kittery that Willa believes is a meetinghouse for the Camarilla, despite the fact that they've seen no one come or go for nearly three days. 

It's Anacostia's fault that Scylla's perched on the window seat, eyes trained on the house through a slit in the heavy curtains, listening as Abigail stomps around, pacing the room impatiently. Scylla's certain that Anacostia hopes that this evening will be an opportunity to bridge a truce of sorts between her and Abigail. But it's been hours now since their shift began, and they haven't exchanged more than a handful of words this whole time.

Scylla's getting bored. "Stop fidgeting," she tells Abigail, glancing away from the window. "You're giving me a headache."

Abigail frowns, hands folded behind her back. "Necros are used to reconnaissance," she says. "I don't have the patience for it."

"Oh? I couldn't tell," Scylla remarks dryly. "You've practically worn a tread through the floor."

"Are you always this charming? No wonder Raelle couldn't stay away."

Even now, the mention of Raelle stings. They've interacted half a dozen times since Raelle learned the truth about Willa, but aside from that later afternoon in the kitchen where they'd had it out, aside from that moment on the front porch, watching the rain — or that moment in the bedroom, Raelle shrugging off a blood-stained shirt — their interactions have been brief and nondescript. Scylla can _feel_ Raelle consciously putting distance between them. 

Every time they're together, Scylla wants to take Raelle's hands in her own and kneel before her. _I don't know how to not want to kiss you_ , she imagines saying. _I don't know how to not want you. How to not love you._ But she feels foolish for even thinking that, partly because she hates how pathetic she'd sound, but mostly because she can't bear the idea of Raelle's eyes growing cold and leaving Scylla begging.

Not again.

"Listen," Abigail says, with a sigh. "I know you'd rather be with her tonight. I tried to convince Anacostia, but she wouldn't budge."

Scylla keeps her gaze fixed pointedly out the window. "I don't need your help," she says, keeping her tone light. "And I don't need your pity, either."

Abigail scoffs. "Pity? You are _gravely_ mistaken, Necro. You're the one who screwed everything up. I only want to fix things because of Raelle." She pauses, coming over to lean against the window frame, lingering on the edge of Scylla's peripheral vision. "She's my sister. And she's a mess."

"You don't know anything," Scylla says coldly. "You have no idea what it's like. The things she said to me before she almost died. She can't stand to be in the same room as me, and I . . . " She trails off, catching herself, the tips of her ears growing hot with embarrassment and shame. 

She can't believe she's coming so close to confessing all her awful feelings to a high and mighty Bellweather, the embodiment of everything she's hated since she was a child. What's worse, she can't believe that she actually _wants_ to do it. Maybe she's more pathetic than she thinks she is ― or more desperate. She doesn't know which is more humiliating. 

"Maybe not." Abigail crosses her arms. "But I know her looking for comfort in another girl's bed isn't going to make her feel better."

Scylla stares down at her hands, digging a nail into the soft flesh between her thumb and index finger, forcing her expression to remain neutral. She doesn't know why she feels so wounded; she should have expected this. It wasn't like Raelle was going to pine forever. Scylla hurt her ― badly. But deep down, there's always been a part of Scylla that hoped Raelle could not move on, that she could never even imagine feeling anything for anyone else. 

"Well, thanks for _that_ pep talk, High Atlantic," she says gruffly, purposefully turning to look out the window so that Abigail can't see her blinking back the sting of tears in her eyes. "Very inspiring."

Abigail sighs, her arms falling to her sides as she sits down on the opposite side of the window seat. She nudges Scylla's foot with her own until Scylla reluctantly meets her gaze, hopeful that the semi-darkness of the room is enough to disguise how watery her eyes are.

"What I'm trying to say is ― her little fling didn't stick." Abigail's tone softens just a little. "Raelle's never stopped loving you. I didn't need to Link with her to know that. She just won't admit it. She's so stubborn."

Scylla can't help but smile a little at that. "She is that."

Abigail returns the smile, looking pleased with herself, and the twinge of annoyance that Abigail's self-satisfied smugness usually produces in Scylla doesn't materialize. Something truly miraculous must have happened in the Altai Mountains to turn Abigail into someone she can _almost_ tolerate. 

Almost.

*

Scylla notices the dark bloodstain on the front of Raelle's combat trousers the minute she comes through the door, trailing behind her Unit and Anacostia, looking winded and roughed up. But it's not until she slumps down on a threadbare chair and stretches out her leg with a wince, twisting her calf to examine an angry looking slash, that Scylla realizes what's happened.

She reacts before she can help herself, springing forward and reaching for Raelle. "You're hurt."

Raelle winces again as she shifts in her seat. "I'm fine," she grunts, pulling away.

If this were weeks ago, Scylla might be wounded by Raelle's rebuff. But now, she just shakes her head, amused. It's just like Raelle to refuse assistance even when she's so obviously in pain.

"Don't be so stubborn," Scylla chastises lightly, gently laying her hands on Raelle's leg. "Let me help."

After a long second, she feels Raelle relax under her touch; a silent way of granting Scylla permission to continue. Scylla closes her eyes, clearing her thoughts in order to focus her concentration.

She Links only enough for energy to flow from her hands into Raelle, feeling the wound stitching itself back together, the nearly imperceptible shift of blood and muscle and skin. Her parents taught her simple Fixing Work back when she was still a child, and she hasn't had many opportunities to practice further since Basic. But she remembers the teachings well enough to be able to hold herself back from entering Raelle's mind.

But then ―

Like a dream ―

(maybe it is.)

― Raelle whispers, "It's okay."

It's more than giving permission. It's a show of forgiveness.

Scylla's suddenly flooded with a dreamy sensation; warm and golden, like lying in hot summer sun.

She sees herself from Raelle's eyes; daring and charming. A cascade of emotions washes over her: hope and love and lust and wild abandon. And then the images turn bitter and cold; she is Raelle, absentmindedly rubbing her palm, longing for the familiar _S_ to appear. She is broken and beaten down, eyes red-rimmed and sore from crying. Raelle's hands are her hands, clenched in rage, hating Scylla and loving her all at once ― and hating herself the whole time for it.

Raelle, in War College; a pretty redhead with green eyes; blinding sunlight; a kiss; Raelle arching under someone else's hands.

It doesn't hurt; it feels alright, somehow, because beneath all of that ―

The brightest thing of all: their eyes meeting across the street. Raelle's heart galloping away in her chest. There is _Scylla, Scylla, Scylla_ and nothing else. Only that brief moment when the world opened itself up anew, when the truth was undeniable; there could never be anyone else. Not now. Not in a hundred years. Not ever.

_No matter what. I'm with you._

*

When Scylla opens her eyes and looks up at Raelle, Raelle's looking right back, her clear blue eyes shimmering, her mouth a wobbly line of uncertainty and longing.

"Raelle," Scylla breathes.

And then suddenly nothing else exists in the world except for Raelle's mouth on hers and Raelle's hand cupping her cheek.

Their first kiss, all over again.

*

There should be doubts and hesitation and _should we go slow?_ , but instead it's all hurried kisses and scrambling to move upstairs to Scylla's bedroom, and Raelle undoing Scylla's jeans before the door is even closed. Raelle pushes her up against it with an electrifying kiss, and Scylla's mind clouds over with lust, concerned only with the warmth of Raelle's body and the wetness between her own legs.

Slow and cautious be damned; she _wants_ Raelle. Her whole body buzzes with excitement, her heart so full of happiness so great and vast she feels close to bursting. She's spent so long holding back but now, in Raelle's arms, it feels like being _home_.

They tug off their clothes unceremoniously and move to the bed in one swift, fluid movement, kissing the whole way. Raelle licks a path from Scylla's neck to just below her navel, covering Scylla's breasts with her palms. Scylla arches beneath her, nudging her knee up between Raelle's thighs.

In an instant Raelle's mouth is on hers again as she pushes one, then two fingers inside of Scylla, rough and needy. Scylla digs her fingers into Raelle's shoulder with a whimper, rocking up against Raelle's hand. 

Raelle drags her tongue along the shell of Scylla's ear, her fingers working quick and rough, leaving Scylla desperate and straining beneath her. Scylla pulls Raelle closer to her, as close as they can get, and bites down on Raelle's shoulder to stifle her little moans of pleasure, the room full of only the sounds of their exertions ― low, heated panting and the scrape of the bed's legs on the floor as it moves with them.

Raelle nips at the space of skin where Scylla's neck and shoulder meet. Her thumb presses harder against Scylla, who tucks her face against Raelle's shoulder. She grips at the pillow above her head with her free hand, white-knuckled, as Raelle pushes her closer, closer ― then, finally, off the edge.

And then Raelle shifts and presses, wet and insistent, against Scylla's thigh before she even has a moment to catch her breath, grinding down with frantic need. Scylla slides her hand between them, helps Raelle along with practiced ease.

 _Beautiful_ , she thinks, cupping Raelle's face with a shaky hand while Raelle pants above her, spent and shaking, their bodies slick with sweat.

Raelle's flushed a rather lovely shade of pink that only serves to make her eyes look more blue, still remarkably bright even now, in the dark. 

"Raelle ―" Scylla begins.

Raelle shushes her gently. She kisses the bridge of Scylla's nose, her mouth, her chin. "It's okay," she says, though her voice sounds just as unsteady as Scylla's. "It's okay. I've got you. I'm here. It's okay."

 _Beautiful_ , is what Scylla thinks again, later, when Raelle stretches out lazily on the bed in front of her and wraps one leg loosely around Scylla's hip, pulling her in.

"Fuck," Raelle mutters, and Scylla watches her eyes flutter closed, her hands moving forward and stroking Raelle's nipples with deliberate slowness. 

Raelle curses quietly again when Scylla's been taking too long; she grabs one of Scylla's hands, drags it down between her thighs. And after that things move fast and slow and rough and gentle and somewhere along the way Scylla loses herself completely.

Or so it seems.

She wakes the next morning with the taste of Raelle in her mouth and the feeling of Raelle's lithe frame curled against her. When Raelle rolls over with a yawn, mumbling a sleepy _mornin'_ and looking at Scylla with bright blue eyes, kissing her languidly, she feels a bit lightheaded.

And, not for the first time, she thinks Raelle is the only thing that's ever made sense.

Scylla leans in and kisses the thin scar on Raelle's chest, lies her hand flat against it so she can feel the steady pulse of Raelle's heartbeat, so close to Linking she's certain Raelle can feel exactly how happy she is right now. Maybe she can; Raelle's gazing at her with a love-drunk expression, the corners of her mouth quirked up into a lazy smile that Scylla thinks mirrors her own face exactly in this moment.

"What are you thinking about?" Raelle asks, as she traces circles along Scylla's forearm with her index finger.

Slow, light touches that make Scylla feel like she's high on Salva; lighter than air.

"You," Scylla says, and she can feel Raelle smile into her shoulder when she kisses the sun-warmed skin there. Scylla kisses the top of Raelle's head, brushes a few stray strands of hair out of her eyes.

Raelle sighs, wraps her arm tighter around Scylla's waist. "What about me, specifically?"

Scylla laughs.

This normally is the time when she comes up with a kind of witty, snarky response that makes Raelle grin. But this morning, in light of everything that's happened, she's feeling unusually poetic. 

"Everything," she says. "Your eyes, your hair. How you always smell like pine wood and soap. Your skin. The way you kiss me right before you come. How pretty you look all flushed and sweaty — " Raelle _does_ grin then, at that, and kisses Scylla's shoulder again. "How I never want anything other than to wake up every day and see you lying there next to me. How I can't bear to be without you. How much I love you."

Raelle untangles herself from Scylla, shifting and propping herself up on an elbow in order to pepper Scylla's face with a flurry of affectionate kisses.

"I'm always thinking about you," Raelle tells her, leaning in for a proper kiss, her thumb brushing against Scylla's chin in that old familiar way. "Everything about you is beautiful," Raelle says, her tone sugary and warm. "That's what I think."

Scylla strokes her fingers along Raelle's jaw. "I still can't believe it," she confesses with a whisper, after a long pause. "Is this . . . is this real?"

Raelle catches her hand, kissing her fingertips one by one. "It's real," she confirms, reaching forward and tucking a lock of hair behind Scylla's ear. "All of it."

Scylla hates to spoil the romantic moment, especially when Raelle moves to trail light kisses along the slope of her neck, her fingers sliding against Scylla's knee, tracing the curve of a thigh, hip. Scylla would really like to spend all day in bed, but from downstairs she can hear the sounds of Willa and the others shuffling about, getting ready to head back to Base, and she knows they'll have to leave soon.

Taking her with them, no less. It's a bit of a terrifying idea, going back to Fort Salem, even if it _is_ for truce negotiations between the Spree and the Army. Even if Alder's guaranteed Scylla's protection. Even if Raelle will be there the whole time, standing side by side with her and Willa. 

"We should get up."

Raelle hums her disapproval. "It's still early." She pushes gently at Scylla's shoulders.

Scylla rolls onto her back, enjoying the way Raelle hovers above her, their legs tangled together, her pale blonde hair glowing like a halo around her head. Her smile is the one from the morning after Beltane, soft and sweet, full of hope. 

Raelle leans in and kisses Scylla's forehead, the tip of her nose. Scylla strokes the side of Raelle's face with her fingers, trailing along the jagged line of Raelle's scar.

"Lóù imé wèlá," Scylla says, quietly. _I love you._

And Raelle, clever, beautiful Raelle, her eyes marvelously blue, says, "Love you too, Scyl," and leans in to kiss her.

**Author's Note:**

> this was really fun to write. thank you so much to [vuvalinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vuvalinis/) who so graciously offered to beta this.


End file.
